Men Like Me
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: The Blindspot and Strike Back boys have themselves a shoot-off.


**A/N** : In honor of Sully & Phil returning to _Strike Back_ , I've decided to work on some old crossovers. Please enjoy!

* * *

The twelfth floor was bored. It was a Friday at two PM and for the eighth straight day in a row, their case was going absolutely nowhere. None of them was exactly sure how an investigation of this magnitude could become completely stalled, but apparently it had. To keep busy, they ran down any and every lead, scoured every database, and they even went back into the archives, searching for correlations. Nothing came of any of it.

Usually this wouldn't prove too dire of a problem—they'd shelve the issue, pack up the files for storage, and move onto other cases. But they had the added pressure of guests on this one. They had the added pressure of the looming international incident that would ricochet around the world if they dropped the ball on this one.

So they kept searching—searching, searching, _searching_ —until finally they couldn't anymore.

Zapata was the first one to toss her files aside. Reade followed, though he didn't toss anything; he placed his files carefully back in the wire basket labeled _Current_. Then he sat and he glared at the basket.

It was too late to go out to lunch. It was too early to leave. They had hours left yet in their shift, but there was no more ground to cover that hadn't already been covered. Reade was thinking about asking Zapata if she wanted to head to the gym for an hour or two, just to kill time if not to blow off steam, when he saw Reg.

It was just a split second—just a glimpse of the man stepping off the elevator before he disappeared down the hallway—but it was enough. He knew what Reg's presence meant. He knew where he was going. Suddenly he wasn't so bored anymore. Suddenly he knew how he was going to fill the rest of his day, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be boring. He kicked Zapata under the desk.

"Time to go."

"What?" She picked her head up from where she'd been attempting to doze on her desk. "You're cutting out early?"

"No." He grinned, striding past her. "Something much better."

He made his way towards Weller's office, her impatient footsteps echoing his. She badgered him with questions on the way over, but he didn't bother answering. He knew it would be better just to see it., whatever it was going to be.

Apparently their boss felt the same way, because Reade almost ran right into him when he turned the last corner.

Weller laughed at them, knowing what they'd come for. "Like kids on Christmas, you two."

Tasha's eyes widened; she knew her colleagues' reactions could only mean one thing. "Reg was here?"

Weller allowed himself a smile. "Want to take a field trip to the armory?"

"God, do I ever."

They made a beeline for the elevator, moving quickly through the bullpen, so quickly that they drew the notice of their guests. The big one, the Brit, was on his feet at once, with his partner right behind him.

"You get a hit on a lead?" they demanded.

Reade almost felt sorry to tell them no. It was obvious they were as infuriated with the slow pace of things as the Bureau agents were, if not more so. Those two were like caged-up animals in here, forever pacing and growling and waiting to be let out. Watching them sometimes, Reade thought they might start rampaging if they didn't get any action.

Apparently Weller thought the same.

"No lead," he told them. "But we've got something almost as good." The soldiers eyed him suspiciously, but he merely smiled. "If you'd like to follow me, we can have a little show and tell…"

They descended to the fifth sub-basement without a word. Weller nodded to the guards at each checkpoint, his seniority vouching for the overly large party trailing in his wake. By the time they reached the last door, Zapata couldn't resist anymore. She ran ahead, truly the youngest child on Christmas morning, with eyes only for her new toy. Weller used the code Reg had given him to unlock one armored case after another after another. There were four in all, with two handguns in each. Eight pieces total, one primary for every member of Weller's field team along with a backup for each.

The Brit whistled while his American partner swore.

"Fuck." Scott couldn't help edging closer to the sleek handguns. Stonebridge craned his neck to get a good look. "Since when do they give suits military-grade weaponry?"

"Since Jane," the three agents replied, and the visitors glanced at each other, not saying a word. There were still a lot of questions surrounding that tattooed woman, but they'd been instructed on multiple occasions not to ask any questions. They had the information they'd been given in their heavily redacted briefing, and apparently it was supposed to be enough.

"I can't believe she's missing this," Tasha said, giddily reaching for one of the guns and testing out its feel, its weight. She ran her fingers almost lovingly against the metal. "She sure picked a bad day to stay home sick."

"Snooze you lose," Reade replied, already moving across the room to where the ammo was stored.

"So what?" Scott wondered aloud. "We just get to stand here and watch you three play with your new toys?"

"Yep," Tasha and Reade replied, not bothering to look over.

Scott muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes in annoyance, but before he turned away, he saw a smile on Weller's face.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing, I was just thinking…" He ran his thumb over the serial number of one of the guns in the case as he looked at the extras. He turned to his subordinates. "Kids, we can share our toys, can't we?"

* * *

In true bureaucratic fashion, Weller did wait to ask permission from his boss before handing over federal firearms to foreign strangers. Mayfair could hear Scott's _Are you fucking kidding me?_ from the other side of the line, and looking at Colonel Locke sitting on the other side of her desk, she smiled and granted permission—on one condition.

They were already doing a few test shots by the time she made it down to the armory. She had picked up a couple interested guests along the way: their office's designated psychiatrist, Dr. Borden, as well as Major Sinclair from the British unit. The group's trip to sublevel five was punctuated with frequent laughter; Borden and Sinclair were cousins by marriage, and though they'd spent their first few decades living just minutes apart in England, they hadn't seen one another in years. They'd been around each other almost twenty-four-seven for nearly a week now and yet the excitement of catching up and the familiarity of reminiscing hadn't yet faded.

It took a hit, though, when they saw those guns. Sinclair grabbed the one that was waiting for him and hurried to join the others at the range. Borden hung behind, entering the room behind his boss and the British colonel carefully, gratefully putting on the pair of earmuffs he was offered to block out the sound.

He stood in the back with the assistant director and his cousin's boss and he watched as too many guns shot too many bullets and he wondered suddenly why he'd agreed to come down here. He didn't like guns. He hadn't liked guns when he and Oliver had been kids, and he certainly didn't like them now.

Sinclair did, though. He got off a few joyous rounds before he seemed to remember. He turned around, waving at his cousin.

"Rob, come on! You have to try these; the handling's amazing. I've never had anything like it."

Borden shook his head, backing further away from the shooting line. "No, no. I'm good."

"Oh, it's not that hard!" his cousin yelled over the noise. "Just point and pull the trigger. There's hardly even any kickback."

"No." Borden held up his hands in surrender. "I'd really rather not. I really don't like—I don't _do_ guns. We've been over this Ollie."

"Pussy," he heard a voice to his left say.

"Excuse me?" He turned toward the voice—it was that American, the one Oliver had complained about—but the man didn't seem to hear him. He was too busy looking at those assembled around him.

"So?" Scott asked. "Are we going to get going finally, or are we gonna stand around for another twenty minutes?"

"Wait," his partner interrupted. "We've still got one more." Stonebridge held out one of the extra guns, grip first, to his boss. "What do you say?" He was grinning. "C'mon. I know you're dying to get back in the field."

The colonel smiled, but shook his head. "I think I'll sit this one out with the director, if you don't mind. That way you'll have even teams, three on three." He tipped his chin forward. "You better make me proud, boys."

The two Brits nodded solemnly, while Scott laughed, slapping his partner on the back.

"Don't worry about that," he called. "We've got the queen's best sharpshooter over here. It'll be no contest with the feds."

"Hmm, we'll see about that," Mayfair murmured, leaning back against the wall to watch. At her side, Locke grinned, and the two began haggling in undertones while the others set up.

In a few minutes, they were all ready. Each gun was loaded, resting on the counter. Mayfair walked behind each of them, making sure no one was standing past the starting line they'd determined. Locke checked again that all the paper targets were in place. Then he took a breath and whistled, loud enough that it could be heard beneath all their covered ears.

For what felt like many minutes—but couldn't have been more than a couple seconds—the noise was deafening. _Bang, bang, bang!_ –each explosion layered on top of another until even their covered ears were ringing from the onslaught. The air reeked with gunsmoke, and Borden coughed at the unfamiliar, acrid smell. None of the others so much as blinked at the haze.

When they had all emptied their magazines and set aside their guns, Weller hit the button to send his paper target flying forward. It had already been decided that they'd go down the line, starting with him, tallying the targets one at a time. Each headshot was worth five points, the heart three, anywhere else on the body one. For any shot that went wider than that, a point was docked.

Out of twenty bullets, each one of his hit the body; he ended up with two clean headshots and four to the heart, with the rest scattered. Mayfair gave him a nod. Respectable.

Scott fared better: none of his headshots landed, but he hit the heart more times than Weller had, beating his score by just a few points. It wasn't much, but it was enough to put a smug smile on his face.

They went down the rest of the line, counting carefully all the while. It wasn't just their bosses' money on the line, it was their pride, and that led to more than a couple recounts, especially when it came to Reade and Sinclair. A few of their shots were so clean it couldn't be determined where the second bullet went through: did it follow right behind the first headshot, or did it land in that same spot on the left shoulder? In the end, after much arguing, they found a way to split the points so each group was marginally happy.

By the time they'd finished looking over Stonebridge's target, though, only half the room was happy. Not one of his shots had gone outside of the heart or the heart range.

It was over.

They hadn't even gotten to Tasha yet, but what did it matter? Scott was right—Stonebridge _was_ the queen's best sharpshooter—and though they didn't like to admit it, they knew there was no beating him, especially not when they were this far behind. They'd need a miracle to even match him, not to say anything of surpassing him.

As Tasha hit the button to bring her target to the forefront, Reade busied himself with cleaning his new sidearm. He wasn't looking forward to losing to these people.

And in the end, he didn't.

In the end, Tasha came out from behind and surprised them all, so much so that Mayfair actually gasped. That's what made him look up, and that's when he saw everyone staring.

"Fuck me," Scott whispered to his left, and Mayfair was so captivated by Tasha's target that she didn't even reprimand his language. She walked right over to Tasha, held out her hand, and shook firmly.

"This is what I like about you, Zapata. You never stop improving, not for a second."

Tasha beamed up at her, momentarily ignoring everyone else's awe. Mayfair's was the only prraise that mattered right now.

With a last smile, Mayfair nodded at her agent, and then turned and headed back down the line. Locke followed after her with a defeated slump to his shoulders, reaching for his wallet. They watched him sift through and take out every last American bill he had on him, and then add on a few pound notes to even the tally. Mayfair took them from him gracefully, sliding them into her billfold fluidly as she made her way to the door. She paused just before she stepped through, turning back to face the room.

"You two," she called, and Weller and Reade immediately, guiltily, turned her way. "I expected better from field agents."

They nodded without meeting her eyes. "Yes, ma'am."

"You need lessons, you go and talk with Agent Zapata."

Their eyes rose this time, and their mouths fell, open and incredulous. For a moment, they were each at a loss for words. And then finally, knowing there was nothing else acceptable to say, they nodded again, and forced the words out: "Yes, ma'am."

She turned and left without another word, leaving Tasha grinning wider than ever. She held up her pristine paper target, unblemished save for the twenty small holes perforating the head of the target. Each was evenly spaced, perfectly separated from its fellows, and exactly within the confines of the human head outline. There was no argument to be had, no multiple shots through the same hole to be debated. Twenty clean headshots, right there on display.

"Well, then." She took a pushpin from the corkboard on the far wall. "I suppose I'll leave this here for all of you to learn from." She tacked the paper target to the main wall, where they could all see it clearly. "And if anyone would like _lessons_ …" She grinned at her team members. "Well, you know where to find me."

She left through same door Director Mayfair had, smiling all the while. Reade and Weller waited until they'd heard the far door shut behind her before they moved. They both lunged for the target she'd tacked up, tearing it from the wall.

"She fucking cheated," Reade snarled, holding the paper up to the light, as if that would reveal some secret. "I _know_ she cheated."

"I think she and Jane switched bodies," Weller muttered, peering through the bullet holes. "I've never, _ever_ seen Zapata make so many clean shots, not in all the years I've known her."

Sinclair and Stonebridge and Scott looked at each other, not bothering to hide their smiles. So maybe they'd lost. But only one of the feds had really won, and that was enough for them. They cleaned their borrowed guns with smiles, leaving them and their muffs on the counters. Reade and Weller were still pouring over the target sheet, bending it this way and that as if to divine answers.

"I don't know about you two," Scott called as he headed, laughing, to the door, "but I am _definitely_ asking for lessons."

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 **A/N** : Thank you for reading! Reviews are love. 3


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